


The Gladdest Thing Under the Sun

by taetaetiger (sexyvanillatiger)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Paganism, Porn With Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexyvanillatiger/pseuds/taetaetiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Even after all this time, the Sun never says to the Earth, ’You owe me.’ Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky.” — Hāfez</p><p>Rain has not fallen in one hundred days. The crops have begun to die. The kingdom has waited too long to ask what the dragon wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gladdest Thing Under the Sun

Rain has not fallen in one hundred days. The azure of the summer sky is faded to a lackluster steel by the heat, and it is as solid and unbroken by clouds as a body of water. It stretches solidly over the fields, like a ceiling, giving the appearance that it could be touched if only one were to reach high enough. In it, the sun swelters, pulsing a merciless day down onto the earth. The dragon that keeps it burning has lit it too hot, from one full moon to the next.

The crops have begun to die. The wheat is brittle and the corn is dry; the tobacco and greens have wilted. The lush plains where herds would graze have withered into a golden dust. The livestock have withered with them.

The crops are the third penance for an unnamed crime. First, the sun god took their water. The creeks surrounding the kingdom dried down to trickles, so thin and brown that not even livestock could lick their muddy remains. Soon after came sickness, which took those very young and very old in great numbers; the healers’ numbers similarly dwindled in such hardship. There are only three remaining.

And now, the crops have perished so greatly that even the presence of a harvest is in question. It is not in Yixing’s line to question the dragon in the mountains, but without the harvest, there will be no sacrifice to his greatness and mercy. It could be that he is unsatisfied with their previous offerings, but now, as a result of his anger there will be no offerings to be made at all. Yixing is not the only one who is ignorant to the sun god’s intentions. The kingdom has waited too long to ask what the dragon wants. The pulse of life amongst its subjects is thready and slow; the people are angry. The king is becoming desperate.

One hundred days since the last rainfall, he orders the oracles to gather and beg in their languages long held secret for an answer simple enough for humble, mortal men to understand. Night is coming when they begin their ceremony, the bright infinity of sky fading to a dusky cobalt. The dragon has swallowed his flame, letting the sky darken enough for the moon to show her face. A large bonfire has been lit just outside of the kingdom’s farthest cottages. Yixing cannot see it by leaning his head out of the doorway of the stone building that keeps the healers, but he can see its glow, golden against the falling midnight. Yixing thinks of the dragon when he sees it, hoping that it pleases him.

“Yixing-ah, come back inside,” Junmyeon calls from deep within, where the dimness of evening is shadowed into a pitch blackness. Yixing obeys, leaving the wooden door open behind him on the slim chance of a peaceful breeze coming through during the night. Outside, the chants of the oracles rise and fall in throbs, rhythmically magnifying and softening. The hum of it permeates the stale, humid air until it makes its way, muffled and beaten, through the healers’ doorway.

There are many cots on the dirt floor of the back room. The three healers that remain have not yet disposed of them. Those who remain have only pushed aside the cots that housed sickened healers, leaving those untainted in their original place. The numbers of those they lost from sickness and those they lost from exhaustion equal each other, overall more than double those who have survived the tumultuous summer. Yixing sits amongst his brothers, knowing that these two will soon be the last healers in the kingdom. He is not sure what will happen to him, but he knows that it will with a stone settled in his gut.

Baekhyun’s bright eyes are clear, even in the shadows of the unlit back room. He watches Yixing enter from where he reclines on his cot. Junmyeon is standing at the entrance, holding back the thin cotton cloth that has replaced a proper door to the bedroom in this fever of a summer. Yixing slips past him and onto his own cot, where he has long since abandoned covers. His bare flesh meets the coarse weaving of the canvas. The modest bedding is surprisingly cool against his sweat-damp skin. Junmyeon shuffles around in the dirt for a few moments, his nerves stirring up more heat in the dark room. He does not settle until Baekhyun demands that he do so.

The healers join the ranks of those fallen for the night. It is almost too hot for sleep; Yixing tosses and turns, every movement burning hotter inside of him. When his eyes finally resist opening, his breaths lengthening and his muscles slackening, he knows that the oracles will have their answer in the morning.

 

It is not unusual for Yixing to be the first to wake amongst his brothers. Even when their numbers were great, he was still the earliest riser. After a night of little and poor sleep, he still holds this title, stirring when the first dull tones of sunlight spill through the small windows along the ceiling of the back room. Sleep has left him; he does not linger in his bed seeking it out. He stands, clothing himself in a light tunic for his modesty before exiting to where the door is still propped open wide from the night before. The morning surprises Yixing, bringing a merciful wind that is chilling against Yixing’s sweat-soaked shoulders and forehead.

It is not long before he finds what he was looking for. At the very foot of the open door, it shines without light falling upon it. Truly, it is not the scale of some humble creature. Yixing picks it up, careful of its sharp edges. In his hands, it is warm, as though it has been recently baked in an oven. It is golden, richer than man’s finest coins, glossier than his rarest gems. Yixing knows, from faith and worship, that this is a scale of the sun god.

The kingdom has its answer.

Yixing sits in the dirt and dried grass at the door of the healers’ home, holding the scale in his lap. He does not move when Baekhyun and Junmyeon find him there, and he does not answer their questions. Instead, he bids them one by one to assist him.

“Baekhyun, fetch the oracles, so that they may interpret this,” he says, holding the scale close and already understanding the message it was left to bring. Baekhyun goes without further question.

“Junmyeon, fetch the king. He will be glad to know that the sun god has given him an answer,” Yixing says, knowing that the king will be displeased by the answer he has been given. Junmyeon hesitates, worried eyes flitting over Yixing’s relaxed posture and the scale in his lap, but after a moment’s indecision, he goes silently.

Yixing’s calls are answered promptly. First, Baekhyun returns with three oracles following behind him, each with long, shrewd eyes and the graceful, elegant features of a prophet. Yixing blinks up at them, his own eyes wide and innocent. He tilts the scale for them to better see it. Baekhyun circles Yixing nervously before crouching at his side. The oracles stand a ways off, speaking lowly to each other. Nobody steps forward until Junmyeon arrives with the king.

He comes with a host of guards, two golden young men leading the procession. The men are fitting, their dark skin tinted from the hot days. It makes them more favorable to the dragon who left this scale. The king pales when he sees it. Yixing places the scale on the ground and bows to his king. When he rises, Yixing addresses him respectfully.

“The dragon has answered, your majesty,” Yixing says, his eyes lowered. He is compelled to speak freely, for the feeling inside of him prowls like a caged predator longing for release. Instead, he stays his tongue; he is merely a healer. His insight is poor and unreliable. It is not his place to usurp the oracles, and not in their very presence. He casts his gaze to them, silently bidding them to come forward.

“What is this? Where did you get it?” the king interrupts, waving a hand at the scale but coming no closer to it. The morning is fading into day, and people are coming out of their homes to find this worrisome ensemble gathered around the healers’ house and the glowing plate. The king has to shout his words over the hum of their mumbling.

“It was left at our door during the night, your majesty. I found it when I woke.”

“An answer, your majesty,” one of the oracles repeats, finally setting him above his kin. His smile is catlike, and he offers it repentantly. “The sun has given you an answer.”

The king’s face is white as he continues to stare at the scale in the dirt before Yixing. He huffs, sputtering, glancing shortly between the healers’ blank faces and the worried reserve of the oracles. “Well, what is it, then? What does he want?”

Yixing blinks and keeps silent, though he longs to speak. It is not ignorance, but desperation that keeps the answer from the king’s mind. The oracle falters before answering him, glancing at the perturbed collection of healers and then the distraught nobility. “He has left a scale outside of the healers’ house…to claim a healer, your majesty,” the oracle says, his voice low and quiet.

The king is silent for a time. Yixing continues to kneel in the dirt, calm, for he had already known this. Beside him, Baekhyun and Junmyeon breathe sparingly. Yixing cannot identify with their worry; he knows that they are safe. The oracles stand silently to the side, and the guards are as erect and silent as ever. It is only the crowds of commoners that do not respect the gravity of the situation, speaking louder and louder until shouts of displeasure and fear spill out into the air. The king’s face creases with anger, his cheeks suddenly reddening. Life returns to his expression with anger. Finally, he addresses the restlessness of the crowd.

“ _Silence_ ,” he shouts, his voice carrying over every whine of complaint uttered by peasant lips. He looks to the healers, considering, but he does not address them. He turns to the oracles, and points to the sun god’s mouthpiece. “State your name.”

The man bows respectfully. When he comes up, he says, “I am the oracle, Jongdae, your majesty. I only deliver to you what the sun god wishes you to know.”

“Then tell me, Kim Jongdae. Which healer does he wish to claim, as he seems to feel he has not taken enough from us already?”

Jongdae falters at the king’s insolent tone, glancing nervously between the scale and the healers who sit gathered around it. Yixing meets his gaze, smiling softly at the oracle. He longs to speak freely. He knows which healer the dragon has called for. But Jongdae is no psychic, no witch, no mind-reader. He can only speak for the divine creature that watches over their pitiful kingdom. He looks away from Yixing and back to the king. “It is impossible to say, your majesty. The sun god left the scale at the door of a home housing three healers. It could be any one of them that he seeks to keep.”

The king breathes out heavily, his lips tightening into a thin line. He rubs a hand across his jaw, his face pinching into unhappy creases as his silence consumes more and more daylight. The oracles shift and glance nervously amongst themselves until a man, a commoner, steps forward. He is tall; Yixing has to crane his neck back just to see the man’s face. His eyes are as kind as his legs are long, and there is a wit to his gaze that is not common amongst peasants. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rich and his smile filled with teeth.

“Your majesty,” he says, respectfully lowering his forehead to the dirt before further addressing the king. “If I may be so bold as to suggest a solution to your problem?"

The king glares down at the man, and then up at him when the commoner rises to his full height. Another man, equally as tall, assumes a place at the first commoner's shoulder. A third man, much shorter than the first two, takes up beside his other shoulder. The king's face reddens to see the three of them clumped together before him, but he waves them on impatiently. The first man smiles an incredibly wide smile, and he says, "If the sun god only wishes to claim one healer, would it not make sense to separate them, so that he may choose which healer he desires?"

"And where," the king hisses, "would you suggest I put them?"

The common turns his gaze to Yixing, still crouched on the ground. He takes to one knee, bowing his head so low that Yixing has a clear view of the back of his neck. "I humbly offer my home so that the sun god may make his desires known to mere men." Yixing blinks, and then for the first time since he discovered the scale, he stands, startling Baekhyun beside him.

"Your majesty," he says, without poise. "The peasant offers an honest solution to our problem." The man, still kneeling, smiles up at Yixing. "Should two others offer their homes, the oracles can ask the dragon in the mountains whom he desires."

The king bares his teeth at the very idea of placing his precious virgin healers in such humble dwellings as commoners' houses, but Yixing sees no flaw in the peasant's idea. The dragon will only have to leave one scale, just as he already has, in one dwelling over another. Yixing turns his eyes now to the men standing behind the bold commoner. They meet his gaze proudly, their philistine bearing brazenly charming in this moment of worry and confusion. Yixing inclines his head towards them, and the first peasant with the wide smile rises so that he stands between his companions and Yixing.

"Will you volunteer your comrades to your cause?" Yixing asks mildly. The man to the commoner's left, with a small mouth and broad shoulders, dips his head and shifts his weight. The man to the commoner's right, with large eyes and lacking his allies' height, holds Yixing's gaze steadily, almost belligerently. The man in the middle smiles broadly, his face twisting to one side by its might.

"They will volunteer themselves," he says.

"You," the king interjects harshly. He distinguishes the man in the middle, the weight of a monarch's wrath balanced on his extended finger. "Name yourself."

Smartly, the man drops down to the ground once more in respect. From where he is hunched over the earth, his voice is muffled, but he is loud enough that his words can be heard clearly. "My name is Chanyeol, of the Park clan.”

"And you," the king says, turning to the man on his left. The man also drops to the ground in a respectful bow.

"My name is Sehun, of the Oh clan.”

Before the king has time to turn on the last man, he takes his place beside his companions in the dirt. "My name is Kyungsoo, of the Do clan.”

The king beholds the three of them, staring down his nose with disgust in his eyes. Yixing gathers Baekhyun and then Junmyeon into his arms and leads them to stand between the king and the commoners. Junmyeon recovers from his silence and clears his throat, asserting his influence before the king as the cardinal healer. The king, in turn, retreats a step towards his guards and meets the eyes of the healers rather than the peasants.

"Chanyeol has proposed a clever solution, your majesty. The healers accept his plan."

To Yixing's side, Baekhyun fidgets nervously, but he does not speak out against Junmyeon. The king considers the three of them in silence, and then the cuts his eyes to the oracles. One of the silent ones, with a long, bare throat and soft, doe-like features, steps forward to Kim Jongdae's side. The third oracle, with eyes and mouth resembling those much smaller woodland creatures, also approaches. The king is covered on several flanks, caging him in. He snarls and steps forward, pushing the healers out of the way so that he may address the peasants.

"Should I hear of one finger being laid on these healers, one unholy word uttered in their presence, one _lustful gaze_ cast on their person, all three of you will wish the dragon had never spoken at all." With an angry jerk, the king turns away, batting through his guards to lead the procession back to the castle. Yixing turns to see the peasants rising to their feet. Park Chanyeol stands at the head of them, taller than most of the crowd that is now chattering loudly behind him. Sehun stands to his side, timid and quiet. Kyungsoo steps forward to make his already harrowing presence larger. The healers disperse amongst them. Chanyeol offers way to Yixing, who takes it gratefully. With a final glance over his shoulder, Yixing can see Junmyeon and Baekhyun's retreating forms.

Chanyeol's home is a step down into the dirt. The doorway is small considering its proprietor's extensive frame, but the low ceiling is compensated by enough earth dug out to cover Yixing's knees. The air is cooler in here, dark and dry and dirty. Yixing's bare feet are soft over the dirt floor. Chanyeol wastes no time leading Yixing to a bed, presumably Chanyeol's very own, and finding him something to eat. His long limbs move with power over grace. He owns little, but he offers what he has. In return, Yixing holds his hands and brushes away some of his callouses. He kisses clean a bruise on Chanyeol's eye, no doubt the remnant of some brutish scuffle that plagues peasant men. Chanyeol bows and thanks him more piously than he addressed their king. Yixing laughs at him softly. Chanyeol smiles back broadly. When Chanyeol leaves to perform his daily labors, Yixing reclines and seeks some of the sleep that was stolen from him by the dragon and his yearnings.

 

Yixing's certainty about the sun god's desires do not change in the length of the day. He does not tell Baekhyun or Junmyeon, for there is no sense in worrying them when they will certainly come to know what Yixing knows by the next morning. Still, Yixing's duties are impaired by his distraction, his eyes constantly wandering to the mountains in the east. When Yixing returns to Chanyeol's home in the evening, he can see the glow of the oracles' fire on the outskirts of the kingdom. He can see it clearer from here than he could from the healers' house. He wastes many minutes staring at its orange glare before ducking into Chanyeol's doorway. Chanyeol is already there preparing an evening meal for them both. He attempts sparing conversation, but Yixing's daze is not excepted in this abode.

He sleeps poorly, this night moreso than even the last. Chanyeol's cot is softer than the puritan furnishings of the healer's dwelling, and Chanyeol offers it to him in favor of the floor. Still, Yixing lies awake, staring at the thatched roofing and wooden slats of the walls. In the morning, the dragon will make his decision and the healers will face new trials, the likes of which have never tested them before. Yixing turns incessantly on his bedding, his eyes stiff with wakefulness. Chanyeol sleeps below, on the floor. Even when Yixing finds sleep, it is haunted by golden visions of a man Yixing has never seen before.

Yixing knows that he slept for only a handful of hours. Once more, he wakes before the dawn, the sound of rustling drawing him from his shallow slumber. Chanyeol's breathing is defined softly in gentle snores; even in the darkness, Yixing can locate him by their sounds. Carefully, Yixing crawls off of the bedding and steps over him, towards the glow of the empty doorframe. With its threshold nearly level with Yixing's knees, he can see it much more clearly than he could outside of the healers’ house. It hums with light like the sun does as it peers over the horizon. It is the same golden red as the morning star's first breath of life, a gentle warmth not yet audacious enough for day. Yixing picks it up delicately, seating himself at the edge of the threshold. His heart beats in his chest so mightily that he worries he will wake Chanyeol.

Instead, Chanyeol is woken by the breaking dawn. It takes what might be hours to surface, slipping into the stale darkness of night. Chanyeol first searches for Yixing on his cot, and finding it empty, he rolls to see Yixing at the doorway with the glowing scale in his lap. It has only just lightened enough for Yixing to see his face and the horror within it. Chanyeol looks up at him, and Yixing can keenly see regret there, as though he has brought on Yixing's demise with his plan. Yixing tucks the scale beneath his arm and approaches Chanyeol slowly, kneeling beside him so that he can caress the man's face.

"What frightens you?" Yixing asks in the quiet of morning. Not even a bird disturbs them. Chanyeol swallows thickly and stares up at Yixing.

"I did not mean to expose you to him," Chanyeol states, nervous but no less commanding of the words he speaks.

Yixing only smiles. He combs a hand through Chanyeol's wild hair and lays him down against his palette on the floor. "Did the dragon himself not call upon the healers to offer him a sacrifice?" He smiles wider, the corners of it curling in a sly way as he leans in towards Chanyeol. Chanyeol sinks into his palette and eyes Yixing warily, but Yixing presses closer and whispers to him, "Can I share something with you?" Chanyeol nods dumbly. "I knew it would be me. You have not endangered me, for I am the one the dragon sought on his first visit. I am sorry that you were burdened with housing the sacrifice," Yixing teases. Chanyeol blinks, finally sitting up and working Yixing back out of his space.

"How did you know?" he demands, his voice rough from sleep. Yixing stares down at the scale, pulling it out from under his arm and back into his lap.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps he does not even know that he had made his desire known to me. But...." Yixing looks up from the scale into Chanyeol's face. It glows in the soft light cast by the scale. Even a commoner such as Chanyeol would have no difficulty determining the origins of this plate. Yixing tilts it towards him, but Chanyeol does not reach out to touch. Instead, he looks to Yixing and asks him,

"What do we do now?"

Yixing glances to the doorway, where dawn is spilling freely over the threshold. "Now, we wait for the oracles."

"Why?" Yixing turns to look at Chanyeol abruptly. Chanyeol does not appear shamed by it. "Why wait for them, if you already knew what he wanted?"

Yixing smiles. "Because it is not my place to convey the sun god's words." Chanyeol, a man who looks as though he has been taught very little about a man’s place, says nothing. He offers to provide food for Yixing before the oracles arrive, but Yixing feels no desire to eat. He takes once more to the doorway, wondering if Baekhyun and Junmyeon are comforted by their morning discoveries. He is disconcerted to see the worry on their faces when they arrive, trailing behind the three oracles who visited the morning prior. Jongdae at the front spies the scale in Yixing's hands, and he releases a breath he seems to have been holding.

"You," he says quietly. "Lu Han," he says to the slender oracle behind him, "fetch the king. Minseok," he addresses the remaining oracle, "return to the temple. Begin the preparations." Both oracles leave in a graceful flurry. Only Kim Jongdae remains, staring down at Yixing sadly. Yixing, though having discovered his fate, does not feel the same anguish. His only melancholy is for the hurt he knows his brothers are feeling. He passes the scale to Jongdae and embraces them in turn, Junmyeon first, and then Baekhyun for a slightly longer moment. Baekhyun trembles in his arms. No man present has the nerve to speak a single word. The king breaks the silence with the marching of his guards.

His eyes betray no understanding as he comes to a halt before the oracle Jongdae. Jongdae turns his gaze to Yixing, discomfited by the angry presence of the king. Yixing holds out his hands to retrieve the scale, but the king takes him by the wrist and pulls him away from Jongdae. "Him?" he asks, shaking Yixing for emphasis. Jongdae's expression is stricken, and behind the king, Baekhyun cries out desolately. "Is this the healer that dragon wishes to wrest from my kingdom?"

"Your majesty—” Jongdae snaps, but not in time for Chanyeol to reach Yixing, pulling him resolutely from the king's grasp. The king, in his surprise, releases Yixing easily.

"Your majesty," Chanyeol interrupts, "this scale was left at my doorstep for the healer Yixing before dawn. The sun god has heard your calls and left his answer."

"Your majesty," Jongdae finally continues, giving the king no chance to interrupt. "This is the healer our sun god has claimed."

The king’s eyes are rimmed with red and bruised darkly beneath; his cheeks are flushed angrily. He paces for a few silent moments, his hands working through the coarse matting of his hair. Chanyeol’s hand slides from Yixing’s wrist to enclose his hand. When Yixing looks up to him, his lip is quivering but his face is the picture of bravery. Yixing pries his hand free only so that he may join their fingers, squeezing Chanyeol reassuringly before releasing him and stepping forward to address the anxious king. He does not have time to open his mouth before the king speaks. He addresses the oracles.

“Take him. Prepare him. He shall be sent to the sun god tomorrow morning.”

He leaves with the flare of his robes, their cascading crimson sharp against the fatigued golds and browns of the parched earth. Baekhyun finally releases his anguished cries, his hands finding the peasant Kyungsoo and holding to him like a criminal to a crucifix. Junmyeon sinks silently to the ground, his eyes tired and sad. The oracles bow their heads, and Chanyeol places a hand on Yixing’s shoulder. In the center of it all, Yixing looks to the sky and asks for mercy for the people of his kingdom, those he will soon be leaving behind.

 

The oracles’ preparation begins with a bitter wine, herbs floating at the top and smelling of spice and brine. Yixing drinks it down quickly to be over with it, but he soon wishes that he had drunk it more slowly. His head and limbs become heavy, and he breathes as if there is a weight on his chest. The oracles are handing him another goblet, this one of water so pure and clear that Yixing cannot remember the taste of it until he drinks it. It is crisp and cold. Yixing cannot recall the last time he felt so satisfied.

While he is pliant and sleepy, they arrange him in a room with incense burning so strongly that it feels like fire in his nose. They spread him out and mutter their prayers before leaving the room and locking him in. The dull, metallic sound of the lock clanking echoes in Yixing’s head long after he loses consciousness.

When he comes to, the room is dark. He turns his head to find that the sky outside is as dark as the room, and that the room is as empty as it was when he was last awake. The feeling that only a short time has passed since then overwhelms him, and he knows that his sleep was not natural. Though he wishes to rise and move about, he dares not to. He knows little of the oracles’ sacrifice rituals. Should he disturb their holy ceremonies, would the kingdom suffer further? 

Instead, Yixing reclines into the dirt floor, though it sticks to his sweaty skin, though it digs its grit deep into him until he feels that the dragon would not be able to taste him over the earth were he devoured right away, and he waits for the oracles to fetch him. They do so before dawn, still hours after Yixing woke. They bring with them a pail of cold water, with which they bathe him. They spread a linen sheet beneath him and open pots of warm, scented oils. To rub over his skin, Yixing thinks.

They cover him completely with oils that smell of seeds and plant stems. “To protect you from burning,” the oracle with the gentle face tells him. Lu Han. Yixing smiles and offers himself to Lu Han’s working hands.

Some oils, they spread over the highest slopes of his cheeks and forehead and nose. These smell stronger, of flowers and spices. “To protect you from his wrath,” the smallest oracle, Minseok, tells him. Minseok covers his lips last, leaving them glossy and slick. He lines Yixing’s eyes with a black stub of kohl, dark rings that will give Yixing’s eyes the grace and animalistic mystery of those stray dogs with long faces that wander around the kingdom outskirts.

Jongdae approaches with the last pot of oil, kneeling before Yixing and lowering him onto his back. Yixing folds his lips and curls his fists and spreads his legs when Jongdae presses them open. “To protect you from injury,” he says, “should the dragon find you too beautiful to devour.” Yixing is not very confident in Jongdae’s protection from injury, as his fingers are slim and his hands are small. Yixing does not know how a man prepares himself for a dragon. More than this, Yixing is less confident in Jongdae’s implications about the outcome of his sacrifice. If the oracles hear the fears in his head, they do not mention them.

The sun still has not risen when Yixing is escorted to the fringes of the kingdom, completely bare of clothing or jewelry. He wears no tunic nor shoes on his feet; even the pendant that identified him as a healer has been left behind. At the door to the oracles’ temple, the king’s sun-kissed guards await them, a small band of lesser soldiers in tow. The oracles take up at Yixing’s sides and at his back. The guards put another layer between himself and the wild. The walk to the outskirts of the kingdom is quiet; nobody sees them off.

The fields over which they travel are dry and brittle. They fade between the soft yellows of straw and the charcoals and blacks of ash. The trees are naked and barren, their rich trunks frail and tinted a pitiful ashen color. Yixing’s skin is warm and slick in the heat of the sun. The dry grass pricks at his feet. Sweat beads over his temples and upper lip. Much more of this, he thinks, and he will be naught but another offering of salted meat to the sun god. He fears idly for the fate of his feet, should the oracles take him all the way up the rocky crags of the mountain, but for now, the rising heat of day is a more pressing discomfort.

The troop leads him far from his home, so that when Yixing turns his head to glance behind, he can no longer see the stone towers and thatched roofs of the king’s castle. His own home, the healer’s hut, far smaller and humble, has been lost to him for hours. There is a feeling in his stomach of peace, as though there is nothing to fear from this offering, but Yixing’s head is clouded with oppositional dread. He worries that the sun god is with him, seeing his doubt. Yixing meets the eyes of the oracles and is not placated by their tense smiles.

Yixing has never participated in an offering. Those who were marked with death were always kept separate from him and his brothers. Yixing has never accompanied the king or the oracles or the priests to the place where offerings are made. There are rumors about its location; over the mountains, in caves below the mountain, even in the sun god’s kingdom in the sky. Yixing is startled to find it in the foothills, so near to where a wandering villager could discover it, should they be foolish enough to try.

It is a stone, large enough for a man much greater than Yixing to sprawl. Its height is similar to several cots stacked atop one another. There are dark stains across its ashy white face, dripping in streaks down the side. Yixing fights to be frightened, his eyes wandering casually over the discoloration even as his mind races with understanding. Something in him knows that this will not become him, he will not be left only as a stain amongst the many. Should he have been born a commoner, nothing more than a peasant mouth to feed with peasant hands to work, easy for the kingdom to release in the honorable death of sacrifice, Yixing might be frightened.

But now, even with his pendant removed from him, his hair hanging in his face, naked like a whore on the streets, Yixing knows that this is different. The king’s guards take him, one at either arm, and lead him onto the altar, as though he would not have gone himself. Into the base at all four corners, men have hammered hooks into the stone. To them, the guards attach ropes, spreading Yixing’s hands above his head and his legs open wide. He tests the strength of his bonds as the oracles mutter prayers, but only curiously. The guards watch with wary glares on their faces, but Yixing is not trying to escape.

Even when they turn their backs to him, Yixing does not fear. He stares into the sky, squinting his eyes as the sun crawls higher yet. It is not long before it sits right in his line of sight, and he has to turn his head to protect his eyes. The stone is hot against his back. The ropes itch against his wrists and ankles. Yixing tries to pray, but no words come to him. He desires sleep, but his mind will not rest. The sense of peace does not leave him, but neither does his doubt. The sun crawls across the sky. What should Yixing do if the sun god does not come to him?

His eyes flick open, searching for the sun. It is sinking towards the west, descending upon the kingdom. It has given Yixing no indication that it knows he is here, waiting. Perhaps his god is not so merciful; perhaps his peace comes from ignorance. Even healers are only men—should Yixing think himself above his brothers who have been sacrificed on this stone? And what of the oracles’ preparation, as though Yixing were a bride fit for any sort of god? Will he not be devoured upon the dragon’s very arrival?

As evening falls, Yixing’s fears proliferate. His stomach growls, and his mouth is dry. What fate could be worse than a death in the belly of the beast? Yixing stares at the sinking sun and wonders if the dragon will come for him at all. He wonders—blasphemy leaving a sour taste in his mouth—if there is a dragon to come for him. Not once has the sun taken notice of him. Not once has it stopped, or stepped down, or even acknowledged him. Is it just as it appears? Some strange disc, bearing as much life as the stone to which Yixing is tied? This very morning, he had been certain that a god ruled over it. Now, Yixing feels acutely alone, sun in the sky notwithstanding.

 _What of the missing bodies_ , Yixing thinks when evening darkens into night. _What of the sacrifices of which no remains were recovered?_ Escaped, he answers himself, tears of frustration and helplessness pooling in the corners of his eyes. Smarter men than him, stronger men, men who have dealt with rope and understand how to release oneself from its bondage. _What of the scales?_ Forged. Forged by the king, forged by the oracles, forged by the villagers. All a plot, a conspiracy to end him, tied to this stone parched and starving. He will starve on this altar, without water or shelter. He will not last another day. He will die on this altar, and for nothing. The first tears fall from his eyes down to his hairline long after the sun has set, and Yixing is still alone.

He is not sure what is a dream and what is not. The dragon does not visit him in sleep or in wakefulness, but other beings do. Shadows and wolves, creatures that haunt man and creatures that hunt him. Yixing’s hands tighten into fists, defenseless. He closes his eyes and thinks he is awake, only to be roused by rustling grass. Nothing ever approaches him, but merely skirts around his ritual space. His desperate fear from the day is muted, accepting. He will die here, as he was supposed to. Whether it was for a god or for nobody, he will die here. He is not sure if he dreams morning coming, or if it actually comes.

In fact, it comes three times. The first dawn rises with rain. Yixing can open his mouth to catch it, wetting his parched throat. Storm clouds roil overhead, their boisterous thunder never a more beautiful sound than it is now. Yixing wakes from this dream miserably, his tongue thick and stuck to the roof of his mouth. The second dawn comes with fire. It scorches around him, never coming close enough to do more than warm him uncomfortably. In the distance, he can hear screaming. He wakes from this dream with tears in his eyes; he fights to stop them. There is not enough water in his body for him to cry any more.

The third dawn comes with a shadow, darker than the darkness of night. Yixing is certain that he is still asleep. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight, and then opens them again. The shadow is still there. Yixing turns his head, and his throat closes sharply. He cannot breathe. In the darkness of early morning, the shape of a great creature moves through the mountains. Larger than horses, larger than cows, smoother than the fish that used to live in the creeks. A dragon, climbing across the mountains in the east. Yixing closes his eyes, and then opens them again.

There is no dragon. There is only a man. In the scant morning light, casting a glow from the other side of the mountains, Yixing can see him. He is dark, with hair like wheat and eyes like fire. He comes to Yixing, naked and powerful. Yixing’s mouth, once dry, wets greedily. His flesh, which had reddened in the day and throbbed throughout the night, feels cool. His stomach, though painfully empty, quiets. The man’s eyes do not leave Yixing as he approaches. When he reaches the altar, Yixing realizes how tall he is, how broad. He wishes to speak, but he dares not.

“Yixing,” the man says, his voice dark around the syllables of Yixing’s name. Yixing gasps, something in him alight with the way the man addresses him. He licks his lips and shifts his hands against his bonds. The man circles the altar, seating himself on the edge of the stone to Yixing’s left side. Yixing tilts his head to watch him. “My name is Yifan,” the man says.

His unique features—the inhuman beauty, the golden hair, the burning gaze—strike Yixing as familiar. He longs to address the man, but the name that sits on his tongue is not the name that the man gives himself. It is an address long deceased in its use, foreign to Yixing but clear in his mind as though it were gifted to him. His mouth is not fit to speak it, so when he submits himself to the man, he only mumbles a meek, “Yifan.” Yifan slides closer to him, his eyes narrowed with pleasure.

“Do you recognize me?” Yixing shakes his head, even though it does not feel like he is telling the entire truth. He _should not_ recognize this man, but he does. He does, he does, he does. “You have been given to me,” Yifan says.

Yes, Yixing thinks, with an overwhelming sense of awe. _I have_. “Yifan,” he says again, his voice tighter this time. Yifan leans down, their faces close to one another. The tip of his nose grazes Yixing’s skin, stroking across the apple of his cheek. His lips find Yixing’s eye, kissing the lid gently. It’s such a human gesture, but the warmth of it is something different. Yixing breathes out gently, lulled by it. Yifan cups his face in one hand. It covers his entire cheek.

“You are mine,” Yifan says as he rises from the stone. He circles it, fingers trailing across Yixing's skin as he goes. Whatever oil is left on his skin makes the glide smooth and soft. Yifan's hands find the knots in the rope, and one by one, Yixing's hands and feet are freed. He does not move from his spot on the altar. Yifan climbs above him, towering over Yixing even as he sits back on his knees. His posture is coiled, power idling in the bunched muscles of his thighs. His broad shoulders hold the weight of day upon them. Yixing stares in awe into the face of the sun god, who indeed looks as though he desires to devour Yixing.

Yifan's somber countenance is broken by a twitch of his lips, lifting in a smirk, and before Yixing has time to defend himself, Yifan sets upon him. Yixing recoils with a sharp breath, but Yifan holds him in place. His mouth finds Yixing's cheek, trailing kisses back towards his ear. He noses at Yixing's hairline, his thumbs working against the flesh at Yixing's jaw. Yixing turns his head to allow Yifan to take what he wishes. Should he choose to tear Yixing's throat from his body, Yixing sees that he has the space to do so.

Still, his ignorance of Yifan's intentions does not inhibit Yixing from basking in his presence. Yixing does not know of a man alive who has been touched by the dragon. And here he lies, on this altar, his hands hesitantly clutching at the flesh of Yifan's shoulders. Yifan takes his arms and secures them more boldly around his neck, Yixing’s tightened grip drawing him closer. Yifan skates his lips back towards Yixing’s mouth. To steal the breath from his lungs?

No, Yixing finds. To kiss him. He gasps his surprise, but Yifan does not punish him for it. His arm slides beneath Yixing’s waist, hoisting him up until their bodies are pressed against each other from chest to groin. Yixing can feel this god’s human body, his manhood, his desire. He can feel his own, pressed hard into the skin of Yifan’s hip. Yixing withholds himself from grinding up against him; Yifan shows no similar restraint.

He spreads Yixing’s thighs, his large hands almost completely covering the vast acreage between his knees and his groin. They travel the path along the inside, their warmth and coarseness sending unruly shivers throughout his body. Yixing tilts his head back, offering himself to this pleasure. Yifan takes him readily. His teeth are sharp against the flesh of Yixing’s belly. He whines, the noise tight in his throat. In response, Yifan’s thumbs dig into the flesh around Yixing’s knees, where his hands are still spreading Yixing open.

Yixing tentatively strokes one hand through Yifan’s golden hair, and then more boldly, he caresses Yifan with two hands. Yifan preens beneath the touch. Yixing would feel a great affection, were Yifan’s tongue not wandering the length of his abdomen. As the situation stands, he is preoccupied with lust; his cock is hard and so close to Yifan’s mouth that he can feel the humidity from his breath, but Yifan does not shift his path to accommodate him. Instead, Yixing squirms in his grip and is met with the brute strength of a dragon holding him still.

“Are healers not known for their patience?” Yifan teases, his eyes sparking like fire when his gaze flickers up to Yixing’s face. Yixing’s cheeks go hot under his observation. Is he being scolded?

“Forgive me, my god, I have—never had this—”

“Ah, yes,” Yifan interrupts him before Yixing’s ineloquence can reach a level of incoherence. “The sweet virginity of the healers.” Yixing whines softly in response, closing his eyes and averting his gaze. Yifan lifts Yixing’s hips with the length of his forearm and bites at where the bone is prominent. Yixing cries out, as much in surprise as it is in pleasure. “I always felt it cruel,” Yifan continues, licking placidly at whatever wound Yixing has incurred, “that the moon and the earth gave you to my watch, but only to be unviolated by desire.”

Yixing slants his gaze down to Yifan, who has retreated from him just enough to suck one finger into his mouth. He trails it down the inside of Yixing’s thigh, leaving a viscous trail on his skin. When he reaches Yixing’s entrance, it slides in without resistance. Yixing hisses, touched by Yifan in places no man has touched before. Even Jongdae’s fingers were not so long or thick as to breach Yixing this completely. “But,” Yixing chokes out, twisting on the stone when Yifan adds a second finger and his tongue simultaneously, “you took me as a sacrifice.”

Yifan hums, pressing his two fingers in deep and leaning back to smile playfully. “So I did,” he admits. “I decided one day that I would have you; I am the Sun. Who will stop me?”

He accompanies his remark with a third finger, sliding smoothly in the thick, wet slaver dripping along the crease of Yixing’s buttocks. Yixing takes this stretch with a deep breath, closing his eyes and working himself down against Yifan’s hand. Yifan expresses his pleasure with this image in a low groan, so deep and guttural that it resonates almost as a growl. Yixing opens his eyes to stare up at his god; in the cool darkness of morning, he glows hot and bright, as though he is catching and reflecting light. But when Yixing lifts his gaze to the sky, there is yet no light there for Yifan to reflect.

“Look at _me_ ,” Yifan commands lowly, pulling his fingers free and sliding up the length of Yifan’s body. “I am not up there. I am right here.”

Yixing lowers his eyes to Yifan’s, who holds his stare as he enters Yixing. Yixing yearns to close his eyes, to blink, to flinch, to shut it out, away. Yifan takes his face in one hand, though, and Yixing holds himself open. His legs, his eyes, his heart—Yifan has him completely in this moment. The god takes his mortal pleasure from Yixing, who gives it freely.

Even when it _hurts_ , and it does. Yixing knows that people do this for pleasure. Perhaps not in the recent heat and famine; perhaps this righteous coupling is the first of the season. Sequestered away with the healers, Yixing had never felt inquisitive about the pleasures of the flesh. His own shameful nights, awoken from sleep to find that he had rubbed himself raw and to completion against his cot, were enough to sate his yearnings. But now, beneath the dragon, Yifan buried inside of him, face twisted with something akin to pain though Yixing knows he is alone in such suffering, he is curious. He longs to know how one could consider this even satisfying, let alone something that people desired to do again and again, so much that they would pay for it, marry for it.

Yifan strokes Yixing’s forehead, wiping sweat from his brown. Yixing looks up to see tenderness in his eyes, though his vision is blurred by tears. Yifan studies him for a moment before speaking. “Breathe, sweet virgin,” he commands. “Then pain will not stop just because you are not breathing.”

Yixing obeys, sucking in deeply. He holds still for a moment, and then he exhales. He feels his own tension leaving through his nose. With another breath, he loosens further. Slowly, his body relaxes beneath Yifan, and he finds himself able to squirm against him. It burns, he’s stretched so wide, but when Yifan moves, Yixing surprises himself with a small moan. Yifan’s eyes narrow appreciatively. He strokes his thumb across Yixing’s jaw, pressing it open before fucking in again. Yixing’s voice raises in wordless praise. Yifan groans his response.

From there, allowing Yifan to use him becomes a desire to be used. Yixing presses his face into Yifan’s throat, nuzzling, and he scents warmth there. The scent of a stormy summer day. As though rain is coming. He meets Yifan’s eyes and finds them glassy. He lowers himself to take Yixing in a fiery kiss, wrapping a hand around his thigh to hoist it up higher onto his hip.

Yixing, who is unfamiliar with the mechanics of a union, is only certain of his own response to Yifan’s presence. He is familiar with the heat settling in his belly, the tightness in his thighs and groin, though he ought to be ashamed of this understanding. Instead, it excites him. He does not know how to describe it, does not know how to explain himself to Yifan, who continues to thrust into him feverishly. Instead, Yixing can only curl his fingers into fists and voice this development in moans and cries. Yifan shifts his weight to his forearm, his newly freed hand taking to the expanse of Yixing’s abdomen.

Yixing knows that Yifan understands him when his grip finds Yixing’s arousal, wasting no time to press his thumb against the head in a way that Yixing feels down to his very toes. He sings his praises first, overwhelmed by how _wonderful_ it is, how awesome it feels to be this burning, this passionate, as though he is sitting not beneath the dragon but beneath the sun itself. And then, when his stomach clenches and everything tightens and he knows that he is close, he begins to plead.

Yifan, despite the ferocity of his anger exhibited in the duration of the summer, shows himself to be a benevolent god. His grip tightens, and when Yixing begins to grind up into it, Yifan does not stop him. He continues the pace he has set, one that is as swift as it is strong; Yixing’s body aches against the stone. He bounces with every thrust, and his breathing stutters in time to Yifan’s rhythm. He loves it. He finds completion in the way men find heaven; white light, gratitude, salvation.

His head is still spinning when he opens his eyes, abruptly realizing that Yifan is no longer inside of him. He sits up, only enough to see Yifan still crouched between his legs. Yifan does not speak, instead letting his hands convey his desires. He pushes Yixing until he rolls onto his stomach, letting Yifan pull his hips back until he has his knees beneath him. The stone of the altar is hard against them, and when Yifan enters him once more, each thrust feels like a bruise. Still, Yixing steadies himself for Yifan, who drags his hands in blazing paths down Yixing’s back. Yixing can still feel the trails of his fingers when Yifan grabs him by his shoulders, hoisting him back up until he is seated in Yifan’s lap.

When Yifan finishes, he does so inside of Yixing. It, like everything else about him, is warm. Yixing gasps, surprised at how distinctly he can feel it. Yifan is quiet about it, his deep breaths lengthening into low moans and nothing more. His hands claw at Yixing’s body, dragging across his dirtied stomach and the sensitive grooves of his hips. He pulls Yixing down onto him so completely that Yixing thinks there is not an inch left that he does not have inside of him. When Yifan comes down, breathing out slowly and complacently, he does not immediately release Yixing. They stay seated together like that for a few minutes longer, the silence of pre-morning peaceful beneath the deep cobalt sky. Yifan nuzzles against the damp flesh of Yixing’s neck. When Yixing turns to look back at him, Yifan noses along the curve of his cheek.

Yifan releases him slowly. First, lowering Yixing back onto his stomach. The stone is warm beneath him, and he splays himself against it wearily. Yifan withdraws slowly, fighting Yixing’s body, which holds onto him tightly. He sits between Yixing’s legs, running his hands over his back, down to his thighs. He smooths his hands over the skin there, not speaking for a long while. When he does, he tells Yixing, “Go back to your kingdom, young healer. Tell them to free their sacrifices. Tell them to give thanks to the sun in the mountains. Go, young healer, until I call on you again.” Yixing’s heart pounds, his stomach clenching, and he realizes that his sacrifice has been accepted. That he will live. He turns his head to look back at Yifan, but there is nobody there. He is alone, no man nor beast nor god around him. All he sees is the sun, setting in the west.

When Yixing rises, he does so slowly. His body is tired and sore, his aches giving him grief with every small movement. Only when his pains have faded into pleasant reminders of his sacrifice does he feel confident to venture back through the wilderness towards home. His feet settle into the dirt around the altar. Standing slowly, he faces the west. The sky is warm and pink, the sun no longer visible around the trees obstructing the horizon. A wet-smelling breeze rustles the air around him; for a long while, Yixing can hardly believe it.

He walks slowly but with certainty. The forest looks no different to him as he walks, except when he turns back to witness the path he’s traveled. He is surprised to glance over his shoulder and see foliage; not just foliage, but the shocking hues of autumn in the trees. Bright golds are already giving way to jubilant reds; Yixing has to stare for a long while before he is certain that it is not an illusion or error of his own eyes. He turns his head to look at the path yet to come, and the trees are bright all around him. He steps further through the forest, and the grass is soft and green at his feet. He meets no predators or danger on his journey. When the forest thins around him and the damp grasses become fields, Yixing is stricken to see them freshly sheared from what should be harvest, but—but it couldn’t possibly—

Yixing turns his gaze to the sky. The sun has long since set, his path now lit by a full moon. Yixing wonders idly how long he was truly tied to that stone, how long he took to the throes of passion, how long he reclined in the arms of the dragon. Was it hours or weeks? He continues walking towards the town, abandoned at the outskirts, though he can hear voices and music on the wind. If there was a harvest, there will be festivities in the square. Yixing goes there.

At the first sight of people, Yixing stops. He can see food. Fires roasting carcasses, bushels of produce, barrels of drink. There are seasonal decorations, the bold autumn colors of harvest festivals strung between the houses to liven the dull colors of the streets. Music dances in his ears, but Yixing cannot yet see who is playing. He takes another few steps towards the festivities, and then he is seen. A child catches sight of him, startling and immediately alerting its mother. She turns to look at him, catching the attention of her husband. The gaze of the crowd comes to rest of Yixing in a wave. He stares back blankly, into the eyes of hundreds. For the longest moment, all is still.

The commotion that breaks from the back is the only thing that saves Yixing from the stares. Heads turn to catch the stuttering, stumbling mess of a man who shoves through towards Yixing. Yixing cranes his head to see, hoping to catch sight of one of his brothers. Instead, it is Chanyeol who breaks free from the throng and bridges the distance to where Yixing stands.

“You’re alive,” he says, his voice thin with breathlessness. “How—what did you—” Chanyeol does not finish his thought. His mouth works wordlessly for another moment, but he lets it rest when it becomes clear that there is nothing more to be said, no other questions to ask. The rustle of conversation rises up from the crowd beyond them. The marching of guards rises over all other sounds long before Yixing can see the procession.

It is headed by the king’s golden guards, flanked at either side by the oracles, who have nervous looks on their faces. In-between their shoulders, Yixing can see glimpses of the king striding forward. Yixing steps past Chanyeol to greet them all, though Chanyeol does not leave his side. The guards part and the oracles fall back to reveal the king, who stops several yards from where Yixing stands. He looks years younger than he did when Yixing left him.

“You’re alive,” the king says, his voice calm and steady. Notwithstanding his composure, there is a severity to his gaze and the way he speaks. Yixing feels the first tendrils of nerves curling in his belly. He lowers his gaze to the ground.

“Yes, your majesty,” he says, feeling as though he is admitting to a crime rather than affirming an obvious fact. The air around them is tense. The crackling of bonfires is louder than the stirring of conversation. Yixing pulls his gaze from his feet to find the king studying him intensely.

“How did you escape?” he finally asks, his words simple but his tone demanding. Yixing frowns, at first not understanding the question. Of course, the dragon released him—however, Yixing is not sure he would consider it an _escape_ , since he, himself, did not endeavor to—

With a start, Yixing realizes that he is being accused. Silently, he holds the gaze of the king in a way that he would understand as insubordination, were he present enough to consider such things. Instead, he is struck blank and dumb. Not a single thought enters his head, save for a pitiful, _Escape?_ Before he can organize a thoughtful defense for himself, the king says to his guards, “Seize him.” In the corner of his eye, Yixing thinks that he may see Chanyeol reaching to protect him, but he isn’t sure. Before he can understand what is happening, he has a guard at either arm, hauling him forward towards the square. The crowd begins to part in anticipation of their procession, but all movement stops with a desperate cry for a halt.

“Your majesty, wait,” comes the wild plea. Yixing turns his head to find the oracle Jongdae, his face ashen in the faraway light of the fires. There is a horror in his expression that strikes through to Yixing’s very core. When Jongdae finally stumbles forward, Yixing is worried that he will be struck down right here, amongst the scattered edges of the crowd.

Instead, Jongdae reaches for the arms of the guards, tearing them away from Yixing. Yixing makes to turn towards him, but Jongdae holds him in place, much stronger than he appears. The grim line of his mouth does not move; his hardened gaze does not soften. He traces his fingers down the bare skin of Yixing’s back, and only then does Yixing notice what Jongdae must have noticed.

Scars. He can feel them rippling beneath Jongdae’s touch each time he smooths over a gnarl of hardened, raised flesh. Yixing turns his head to try and catch sight of them, but he is unable to see. He looks to Jongdae for interpretation, but the gaze of an oracle is rarely a comprehensible account. Jongdae does not study Yixing’s flesh very long before he urges him aside, taking his place in the line of the king’s wrath.

“This healer has been marked, your majesty.”

The king has a caged, wary look in his eyes. His attention darts from the oracle to the guards to Yixing, who stands silently to the side. The king takes a step towards him, and then another. Something about the situation is unnatural; after a moment, Yixing realizes that it is the utter silence. When the king reaches him, Yixing shows him his back before he can be bodily spun around. For a long while, the king is quiet.

Yixing startles when the king graces a hand down his back, his old fingers finding the same knotted tissue in the same strange patterns as the oracle had. Abruptly, the king takes him by the shoulder and turns him once more, nearly sending Yixing stumbling to the ground. The king thrusts him forward towards the oracle and merely says, “What is the meaning of this.” His inflection leaves no room for question; he is demanding an answer.

Jongdae turns Yixing again, much more gently, and he follows the pattern of the scars. “The harvest came, your majesty. The drought ended. The plague has ceased. The dragon sent this healer back bearing his mark.” Jongdae speaks as though the answer is obvious, but joyfully. Yixing steals glances of the king’s dour countenance and is pleased to find relief in the weary lines around his eyes and mouth. “Your sacrifice has been accepted.”

The king studies Yixing momentarily, and then turns his attention to the townsfolk and the harvest celebration that stands as still as though it were displayed in a tapestry. When he finally looks back upon Yixing, his face is younger than Yixing has seen it all summer. “You are free to return to the healers,” he says.

“Your majesty,” Yixing interjects before the king can turn and disappear back into the festivities. “The dragon sends a message. Release your sacrifices, and give thanks to the sun in the mountains.”

The king lingers expectantly, but Yixing stands silently, his message delivered in its entirety. The king turns to the oracle and passes the responsibility of the dragon’s instructions unto him and his brethren; Jongdae accepts it with grace. The king commands his guards to escort Yixing to the healer’s hut. With a practiced salute, they agree. He disappears into the crowd with the sweep of his robes; their dignified fluttering is no longer intimidating, but victorious. The king’s golden guards clear a path through the crowd, which revitalizes with noisy shouts and song, and it is not a far walk before Yixing sees his home. His brothers stand on the threshold, awaiting news of his fate. Yixing’s vision blurs with tears as he rushes forward to embrace them silently.

 

The harvest tides even the poorest peasant through the winter. The first buds of spring come no sooner and no later than the final emptying of their silos, and even the weakest cattle struggle through the almost reasonable cold. The sun keeps shorter rounds and is regularly hidden behind a covering of clouds, but Yixing still looks to him often. He brings spring weeks early, and he brings it in full bloom. Rain consumes the land in ways that flood the river and ripen the fields for planting.

But his early spring is accompanied by an early summer, and it is no less forgiving than the last. By the fifth new moon since the winter solstice, the river is half its healthiest height. By the new moon, it is dried to a creek. The people murmur amongst themselves about the wayward mercy of the sun, but Yixing says nothing. Yixing only waits. Each morning with his early rise, he seeks his threshold, hoping for a message.

It comes before the next full moon. It is large, as large as the last two had been, and twice as bright. When he holds it in his hands, it is a comfortable warmth, one that has bothered his dreams since last summer. When it comes, Yixing takes it and hides it within the bedding of his cot. He stows it away from his brothers, from the oracles, from the king. He shoulders his duties in the usual way, but when night falls, Yixing takes to the front room as soon as his brothers are asleep. He prays for a blessing from lesser gods, and he quenches his flesh with oil. Hesitantly, he spreads his legs to do the same within. Before the first lights of dawn have broken, Yixing clothes himself in only a sheer sheet of linen and takes the quickest road out of the kingdom.

The walk is longer than he remembers. It is not as straight, nor as quiet. The cries of birds await the dawn, but the sky overhead seems frozen in darkness. By the light of the stars and moon, Yixing is able to stumble his way towards the mountains. The closer he gets, the warmer he feels. The coolness of night fights a stronger and stronger battle to reach his skin; Yixing feels as though he has stepped into a pool of sunlight, though none is about. As the trees begin to thin and the foothills begin to rise, Yixing seeks his destination with his head inclined forward.

Yixing can see him even before he breaks the treeline. It would be impossible not to see him. The cover of night cannot shroud him; the stretch of distance cannot hide him. He lounges, mammoth and serpentine, curled around the altar like a cat at the hearth. One massive claw is propped against the very stone Yixing had been tied to not yet a year prior; it curls as Yixing approaches, scritching loudly as it goes. Still, he approaches without fear. He considers bowing, asking for penance or mercy or favor, but he meets the dragon’s eye and understands.

Yixing takes immediately to the altar. He cannot splay himself on it, but rather curl himself around the claw. He embraces it, running a hand up its smooth face. The dragon exhales through its nostrils, a thick steam dampening Yixing’s linen and bringing a sweat to his brow. He drops the sheet, letting it pool around him on the stone; the dragon’s pupils have dilated to the size of a man’s shield. The smallest inclination of its great, horned head is a movement so grand that Yixing feels surrounded by it, as though in some sort of limbo. The world lurches and sways around him, like the smooth crawling of a snake but _so much more_.

And then everything stops, and beneath Yixing’s hand is no beast but a man. Yixing dares not meet his gaze, but the man takes his face in two hands and forces him to do so. Yixing stares up at him, his eyes hurting as though he is staring at a very great light. The man smiles, and Yixing accepts him with a quiet, breathless, “Yifan.”

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title "your fave, naked on an altar"


End file.
